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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504647">The End of You.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayita35730/pseuds/IronBitch35730'>IronBitch35730 (Ayita35730)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Channel Zero (TV), Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abigail Hobbs Lives, Beverly Katz deserved better, Beverly Katz is the Best, Butcher's Block AU, Cannibalism, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Dark Will Graham, Everyone pretty much is in this, F/F, Finally, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is Joseph Peach, Hannibal seduces will into Cannibalism in a much more literal way, Hannibal will fix it, Happy Murder Family, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Murder Family, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is Still a mess, Will and Abigail are messed up, but it still makes sense if you haven't seen it, havent decided if it'll be implied or explicit, sorta - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:35:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504647</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayita35730/pseuds/IronBitch35730</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"His name was Hannibal Lecter. He was this sought after psychiatrist, ex surgeon, beloved society man and get this—a cannibal. You think someone would have put that together sooner right? He’d been murdering people in Butcher’s Block for years. His birth family was apparently murdered in the Block a long time ago and he grew up to turn it into his own personal hunting grounds. No one’s exactly sure what they found in his house, but when he was first questioned a group of locals snuck in and whatever they saw, scared them enough to burn the whole place down, all the Lecters still inside."</p>
<p>After the working the Minnesota Shrike case alone, Will Graham takes orphaned Abigail Hobbs in as his daughter. Together they flee Baltimore and run somewhere even worse--a small town with a lot of urban legends surrounding the neighborhood of Butcher's Block. Will doesn't find the legend of the Ripper that interesting.</p>
<p>But the Ripper certainly finds him interesting.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the worst little town you've never heard of</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Will Graham has come to love introductions.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once, he hated them. He didn’t care to meet others, didn’t care to be met. But now they’re precious. Those brief moments in a handshake, a faux smile and an absent hello have become sacred. They’re the only time that he and Abigail are ever just a normal family. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The only time Abigail isn’t the orphan daughter of a serial killer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The only time Will isn’t the man who murdered her father.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A blessing to be strangers now—to the world, their names are branded. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail Hobbs: Cannibal, Will Graham: Psychopath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man with the mind of a killer and the daughter of one—a perfect, morbid pair. Freddie Lounds thought so as well, devoting herself to having them burned at the stake side by side. Not even completely metaphorically either, as the death threats they both received as a result of her colorful Tattlecrime articles could take a decidedly medieval flare.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Humanity never does tire of witch hunts. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will wants to try and tell himself he never planned on taking in Abigail, that he simply wanted to help her back to her feet to settle his guilt and move on, but when he lies to himself he likes to at least be somewhat convincing. When he saw the listing for a two bedroom rental in Garret (some town so isolated it made Wolf Trap look like a party city) he jumped on the opportunity. All it took was to see the longing in her eyes when he held up the ad and somehow he was buying two plane tickets and handing a letter of resignation to Jack Crawford. He got hell for that (from the FBI and a parade of psychiatrists both) but ultimately the FBI had nothing substansial on Abigail and he wasn’t officially in the FBI—there was nothing they could do to keep them from leaving. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack’s words still echo in his mind</span>
  <em>
    <span> “You can run from what you do Will, you can run from Baltimore. You can both run away, but you won’t be able to run from what she is, from who </span>
  </em>
  <span>you</span>
  <em>
    <span> are,” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So he treasures this moment, as he shakes Beverly Katz's hand and sees the brief pleasant second as she smiles at him, before his name sinks in and she realizes—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“That</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will Graham? Like the guy who killed the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Minnesota Shrike</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will Graham?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In the flesh,’ he says, knowing how bad of taste it sounds before he does. He decides it’s completely worth it, to see the horrified but amused expression her cold one melts into. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s bad, your bad, my god. I like you already. God knows that journalist always sounded like a bitch, “ he grins, genuinely at that. It’s nice to hear someone dismiss her as easily as everyone dismissed him, dismissed them both. He never understood how it was somehow implausible to everyone that a snake spits venom—lying comes second nature to Freddie Lounds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems he finally has the luxury of an objective skeptic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She is,” he says and Beverly laughs, tearing a packet of sugar open and pouring it into her coffee. She seems at ease still, interested if anything but certainly not uncomfortable, so he allows himself to relax a bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly seems to notice his hesitation. She looks at him critically and he feels stripped apart by that look, analyzed in a different way than he’s used to. Typically people looking at him lean less toward genuine interest and more toward professional curiosity or ‘oh my god, is that man a murderer’. Beverly’s focus, if still unnerving, isn’t that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t look so rattled. Trust me, you came to the right place. We have enough urban legends here already, we don’t have room to turn you into another one,” She says, a shadow falling across her face, “Or did you know that already when you reached out to Alana?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs, not really willing to explain himself. He did what he thought was best, but he’s aware what he deems best differs greatly from what everyone else would. The logic of the desperate rarely coincides with that of the majority. It’s the mindset of someone who has everything to lose versus someone who has lost </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> everything already. That last little bit becomes so much more precious than the whole was—a world of difference between something you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the only thing you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>left. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Flocking to where danger is normalized? Where disappearances are so frequent that he and Abigail won’t be under suspicion every time someone goes missing? That’s neither sane nor innocent</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He can’t really claim to be either, but that doesn’t mean he has to explain himself to everyone. He’s done with that. His motivations, his own methods for some kind of twisted peace are just that: his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You become one of those urban legends for a while, things don’t look so simple anymore,” He says, trying to keep the resentment out of his tone. He doesn’t know how well he succeeds, but Beverly only raises an eyebrow and sips her coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fair enough, but what all have you heard?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will has to think about it for a moment. He honestly hasn’t heard much except for the crime rates. He looked at the college in the next town over for Abigail and when he saw Alana Bloom (an old colleague of his) on the staff list, he reached out. She was more than happy to get him a position and after that it was just packing his bags before Jack locked him up somewhere as FBI property. He does remember an article that Abigail showed him when she applied for the next term.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That Garret’s the ‘worst little town I’ve never heard of’,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, that line,” Beverly tries to frown but it seems more like a smirk—she doesn’t totally disagree, “We have our fair share of  undesirable writers around. I’d like to think we aren’t all that terrible, except for maybe Butcher’s Block,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Butcher’s Block?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Alana hasn’t told you anything then? She must have been waiting to do it in person. But hey, she asked me to come meet you when she couldn’t so I’m simply assuming the responsibility. Butcher’s Block is the worst neighborhood here. It’s the source of all the town disappearances, all the town legends. Heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The serial killer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His name was Hannibal Lecter. He was this sought after psychiatrist, ex surgeon, beloved society man and get this—a cannibal. You think someone would have put that together sooner right? He’d been murdering people in Butcher’s Block for years. His birth family was apparently murdered in the Block a long time ago and he grew up to turn it into his own personal hunting grounds. No one’s exactly sure what they found in his house, but when he was first questioned a group of locals snuck in and whatever they saw, scared them enough to burn the whole place down, all the Lecters still inside. I was still in college myself when all of this went down, but I was home to see the fire. It’s a miracle the park itself didn’t catch on fire. Stupid drunks aren’t know for their safety awareness. The ones who did it are still in prison for the murders and because he died in the fire, Lecter was never officially convicted. We all know he did it though. Well, except Alana.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will cocks his head a bit, curious. Alana hadn’t mentioned anything about this Hannibal Lecter to him, which is odd considering both of their previous lines of work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alana has a different opinion?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly rolls her eyes at that, “Alana’s blind and still lovesick for her old mentor. Hannibal taught her everything she knows and to this day she maintains his innocence. She probably would have been a character witness at his trial if it weren’t for the fact everyone thought they were sleeping together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This surprises him. He’s never heard of Alana dating, much less imagined her the type to get in bed with her mentor. Will takes a long sip of his own coffee and measures his reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And were they?” Careful not to give any indication of his feelings on the matter, even if a little jealousy he tries to ignore flares bitterly in his chest. He long since accepted that he and Alana would never happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but I think she would have jumped at the chance. He just didn’t go for it from what I know. He was a pompous rich dude, but a solitary one; all the old assholes here like to think he was gay, and that’s why he was such a monster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will almost spits out his coffee at that laughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I’ve seen a lot of odd things in my life but sexualized cannibalism has to be a new one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you know Will? Murder is gay now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will can’t help but break out into genuine, overwhelming laughter at that, a bit of coffee threatening to come up his nose. “I’ll make sure to work that in my lectures somewhere.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly toasts to him with her coffee cup and smiles broadly. “Hey, so you can smile! I was wondering if your face just naturally looked like you bit into a lemon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes this time, thinking that Abigail would like this woman. Abigail has always appreciated quick wit and Will can’t banter with just anyone. Not like this, easy and carefree. Maybe he’ll actually have a friend here. “It does if you ask anyone who knows me,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly raises an eyebrow at him and chuckles slowly. “Well I kind of did—or do you not know yourself Will?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That stops Will short, the words stolen from him as he flounders, but Beverly pushes right through his crisis like she never caused it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, the weird thing is the disappearances didn’t stop, they didn’t even slow down. You’ve seen the graffiti around town right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will stutters, his mind still bouncing her words around like a broken pinball machine. Finally the question breaks through. “Um, yes. Unpleasant art you have here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers seeing one mural near a stoplight on their way from the dealership. A creature, humanlike but obviously not human, ink skin and seeming almost hallowed out, like a shell. It had antlers from the look of it, an odd detail that sent him back to hunting cabins and dead eyes he previously only saw in his nightmares. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me guess, you saw the shadow guy, the one with antlers? Yeah that’s the Ripper. Or so says Butcher’s Block anyway. I hear it from my students all the time, though only a few came from that area. They say that Lecter haunts the park and the streets of Butcher’s Block, still preying on them, still punishing them. Some people have even said they see these staircases pop up out of nowhere and </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> come out of them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks the slightest bit shaken and curiously he wonders what all Beverly Katz has seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spooky,” He says, trying to lighten the tone again and thankfully, it works. Beverly shoots him a look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, I know, I’m not saying I believe in all that shit. But you or your daughter run into any staircases around, I suggest taking the elevator.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I pledge to do the lazy thing,” He grins, something nagging at him even as she chuckles again, talking about the professor he’s taking over for (another disappearance).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That name, Lecter, catches him somehow. It’s almost like something overly sweet sticking to the roof of one's mouth, refusing to simply disappear. Maybe it’s time to get back into research. He hasn’t written anything in a long time, the Chesapeak Ripper could prove to be an interesting distraction. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. its going to eat you alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Abigail's got ghosts in her head.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Abigail wonders how pretty her corpse would have been. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She thinks about them placing small caps over her blue eyes, sewing her thin lips shut and filling her veins with chemicals. Faceless hands passing over her, touching up her features with bits of color and lines she doesn’t really have. The deep gaping gash in her neck sewed closed and smothered in foundation: painting over her father's last stroke of brutality. She would have been the most angelic little centerpiece in a funeral lacking any mourners.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She sits on her small bed in her new room and glances in the mirror, a scarf hanging in a  noose (the most obvious simile she can think of, what happened to all those SAT prep nights of hers?) around her neck, hiding the scar she has instead of a gravestone. Will has never commented on it, though she notices he always makes sure he buys her a new scarf whenever he is forced to go shopping. His attempt at a gesture she’s sure—one she’s fond of. Will is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>odd</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that, doing little things out of guilt for her father’s murder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even though if it wasn’t for him, she’d be rotting on her family plot next to her mother and grandmother.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one ever told her what happened to her father’s body. She assumes no one held a service. Being an only child, she had notions that one day she’d be responsible for organizing her parents burials but she never thought she’d be so young. She never thought they’d happen because her father cut her throat, never thought it’d be after he killed and fed her bits and pieces of other girls, other versions of her he went through with killing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She also never would have imagined living with her father’s murderer, that she would secretly think of him as Dad on occasion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will Graham is something else. He’s simple on the surface—a dog loving, fly fishing hermit. But his mind works differently. She knows about the empathy, although they never discuss it. She knows he was able to find her father by putting himself in his head, by feeling his compulsion to kill girls, to kill girls just like her. Reflections of her with their own lives and faces and dreams and hopes that were snuffed out so she could continue to breathe. So many innocent girls sacrificed to preserve one.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One not-so-innocent girl for eight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She wonders if it's her or her mother who are considered the final victim of The Minnesota Shrike. Poor naive woman—at least Abigail hopes she was just naive. The alternative that her mother was somehow complicit in her father’s crimes would shatter what little normalcy Abigail has clung to in her life. She doesn’t know if she can handle that, on top of everything else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail smoothes out her sweater and does a half turn in the mirror. The soft grey wool brings out her eyes. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders and with the scarf tossed over her shoulder all she needs is a armful of books to look the part of the perfectly average college student. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And she is, she supposes. Will registered her for the fall term and she starts in a few weeks. She’s already chosen her classes and bought her textbooks. Will has even offered to take her shopping for new clothes, though he went near ashen at the prospect of wandering around a mall for several hours, waiting for her to try on endless outfits. By all means she should be getting her life back on track, putting all the nastiness of her father behind her. She even registered with the last name Graham, so she wouldn’t have the Hobbs’ shadow following her here. Her coloring is close enough to Will’s that everyone will simply assume he’s her father. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Darkness like Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ doesn’t simply disappear, especially in a town bearing the same name. It feels foreshadowing somehow, a reminder that her father’s crimes will never fully be behind her. Not to mention there’s something about this place, something sinister. She hasn’t said as much to Will, is not heartless enough to shatter his desperate grasping for a fresh start. Not that she isn’t grateful—she’s unbelievably happy to be away from Jack Crawford’s suspicious gaze, waiting for the slightest hint to end the precarious life she’s trying so hard to build for herself.  But there’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> about this town. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She takes one last look at the mirror and bounds down the stairs of their little house toward the kitchen, where Will sits looking at a newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee. She has to do a double take when she spots it. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Will read the paper, this little stereotypical scene seems bizarre and out of place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then she catches sight of the headline. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN IN HORRIFIC DOUBLE HOMICIDE</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cocks her head a bit, curious. She remembers Will mentioned something about a Ripper when he came home the day before, but she was under the impression this was an old case. “Hunting murderers again? I thought we ran away from all that.” She says casually, starting herself a cup of coffee as Will looks up, startled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Abigail, you’re up early.” He says and she shoots him a smile, raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nearly ten, Will.” Will’s eyes go wide and he looks frantically for a clock, shaking his head at himself when he catches sight of it. He looks at his coffee, which has long since stopped steaming and drops his head into his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I would have made something for breakfast if I had realized. I just got caught up in—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A killer?” She asks again, almost accusingly. She finishes her cup and moves to sit next to him, only then noticing the stack of newspapers taking up the other seat. They never bothered to get more than two, neither of them really anticipating any company. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will actually looks a bit guilty. He drags his top lip across his bottom one, a nervous tick of his, then he reaches for the newspapers. Abigail beats him to it though, grabbing the small pile in one hand and scanning the page for answers. She’s unsurprised to see another headline featuring the Ripper but </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprised at the content.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>RIPPER PRIME SUSPECT DIES IN GARRET FIRE: INVESTIGATION GOES COLD</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s all this?” She says, genuinely confused now. Why would Will be chasing a dead murderer? Or suspected murderer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s research. I’m going to have a lot of time on my hands now that I’m just teaching, so I’m exploring a possible research topic.” Will explains, pushing his cold coffee mug away from him. She smiles when she sees the one he’s using—a dumb little thing covered in pawprints. It’s absolutely ridiculous. She’d bought it for him as a sort of joke a while back and he’d held onto it. At the time he couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable and thought she’d made a mistake in buying it, but seeing it now just sends a jolt of fondness through her heart. He really does try for her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“On the Ripper?” She asks, taking a sip of her coffee. “So you stopped hunting serial killers to write about dead ones?” Then suddenly, a cold feeling settles over her. “You—you wouldn’t write about my father, would you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s coffee cup slips out of his hand and falls to the floor in a crash, the shattering glass sending her reeling away from the table, her own cup forgotten. Her heart beats incredibly fast and Will just stares at her. They don’t talk about Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It’s an unspoken rule to maintain their little bits of peace, the foundation of this little semi-normalcy they dwell in. Just like they don’t mention the screams in the middle of the night. Her father is the spectre starring in both of their nightmares: the caretaker of their worst fears. She can’t believe Will would do that, would profit off their mutual trauma but…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She once trusted her father, too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before Will can answer she’s dashing out the door, tears running down her face. She suddenly needs space, she needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, needs to get away. All she can hear are dead girls chanting in her mind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <b>should</b>
  <em>
    <span> have killed you!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“He should </span>
  </em>
  <b>have </b>
  <em>
    <span>killed you!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em><span>“He should have</span></em> <b>killed</b> <em><span>you!”</span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“He should have killed </span>
  </em>
  <b>you</b>
  <em>
    <span>!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Each of the voices are conjured from the depths of her mind, from places she’s trying to seal away and she wants to scream herself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“ He should have killed you, so he wouldn’t have killed </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>ME</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> The last one is a chorus of pain and anger and despair all echoing around her and Abigail cries, her hands covering her ears as she pushes her legs harder, going further and further away from the house, until several minutes later she’s suddenly surrounded by trees.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She stops when she sees the stairs.</span>
</p>
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